Oh, this marriage will be the death of me!
by anarchic equity
Summary: Johns and Sherlocks wedding is coming up, but Sherlock is not helpful and John is pissed and they both are unhappy with Mummy interfering. Can they even get married under such circumstances? And how did it come to that? including Mummy, Mycroft and beef bourguignon. Johnlock
1. Oh, innocent memories!

John was so royally pissed, he didn´t even give Sherlock a good-night kiss, as they went to bed in Sherlocks´ old childhood bedroom. It had been a tedious day at Holmes Manor, having to deal with Mummy (yes, right, Mummy! She insisted on him calling her Mummy! John wanted to scream. He already did have a mother. What was that? Did she want to feign intimacy, where there were only icy glares and fake laughter?) and her "witty" remarks on Johns common upbringing and along the way decide on flowers, locations, cakes, meals and registrars.

But it was not that, what pissed John of. No.

What really got on his nerves was Sherlock, his fiancé, the love of his life, the person on whom he should always be able to count on, staring holes into the panelling, not moving a muscle, not uttering a word. Not even when Mummy asked if "that woman" (Harry) would show up at the ceremony, because Mummy "would not like to have our guests associate the Holmes family with something like her".

He would have punched her, if she wasn´t a woman.

And now he lay in between the cold sheets, not warming up at all. Holmes Manor was a big, old building with high ceilings and the windows were badly sealed. It also didn´t help, that John had moved himself as far away from Sherlock as possible. Two whole feet were separating them. Really impressive for a childhood bed, but in Holmes Manor everything was big.

John pondered on the pros and cons of grabbing a further blanket (pro: warmth, con: possible interaction with Sherlock and having to touch the cold floor with his feet), when he noticed Sherlock hesitantly stroking his hips with his fingertips. For normal people, who had gone through such a terrible afternoon, this soft fondling introduced an apology. But not for John, having known Sherlock of years now.

"No, Sherlock."

This soft, oh-so-casual touch meant: Fuck me hard. Now.

Sherlock huffed slightly, but continued his assault on Johns´ thigh.

"Sherlock, stop!" John grabbed his fiancés´ hand and shoved it away a bit more roughly than necessary.

"But I want to make love now, John!" Sherlock whined slightly.

John took a deep breath in order to stay calm. "I normally love to make love to you, but I really don´t feel that loving tonight."

Sherlock took a quick glance at John out of the corners of his eyes. "It´s because of today, isn´t it?"

"Yes, brilliant." Johns´ jaw clenched.

"It was not good?"

"Nope."

Silence took over. They both knew Sherlock would not apologise. Sherlock would not have survived his childhood if he had weighed every word his mother uttered. John knew he would forgive him. That´s what he always did. He just needed some time and space and get the fuck out of that bloody manor!

After a few minutes Sherlock shifted so his left arm was pressed against Johns right. John could feel the body heat radiate off of him and it felt nice, cosy, and warm, like home. But his brain insisted, that he didn´t want intimacy right now and just as he was about to complain Sherlock spoke.

"I had a short span in adolescence in which I pleasured myself every night in this bed."

John forgot to complain. Hell, John could have even called himself lucky to still know his own name .

"It was the summer break. I was sixteen, at home for the holidays. Both, nor women nor men before interested me. But that one summer we had the outer wall of the Manor painted. There were young men strolling around, more smoking than working. Mummy didn´t look twice at them, but I did. I looked at them. Their exposed torsos, their defined muscles, the sweat running down their backs. At night I locked my door, got in bed, naked, and remembered."

The fiancés, already grabbing and stroking at various places, finally looked at each other.

"W-what did think about" John barely got it out of his mouth, his lips completely dry.

"I thought about how they would do me." Sherlock answered, his excitement obvious in his voice (and Johns´ hand). "I thought about them shredding me of my clothes, their weight holding me down. I thought about them kissing me fiercely, twisting my nipples between their fingers, stroking my penis with their big brawny hands."

Johns´ actions followed the lead of Sherlocks´ words and soon he was on top kissing his fiancés neck, twisting his right nipple and stroking what was left to be taken care of. Sherlock was groaning underneath. Obviously fighting hard against the sensations to continue his story.

"While I imagined that, I touched myself. Even when I imaged how they would enter meeehh~." John had done just that.

And they were kissing. Lip on lip, tongue on tongue.

It was hungry and greedy and loving. Everything it had always been and everything it would always be.

One of Johns´ hands was tangeled between his lovers´ thick black locks as the other supported himself. Sherlocks´ ankles were crossed over Johns´ arse and his feet tried to push the cock pleasuring him even deeper inside.

They didn´t usually do dirty talk. It was not something they needed to get off and they both had always felt free to use the correct terms for genitals. (With John being a doctor and Sherlock being ...Sherlock.) But damn! It was hot hearing his love speak about masturbation and imagine sixteen-year-old Sherlock wanking desperately. He must have been beautiful.

They didn´t postpone the inevitable, for they were both (really, both!) tired and someone could hear the bed creaking in this old halls. The orgasmic bliss held for a few seconds and John finally felt warm enough to be able to find some sleep as Sherlock snuggled up to his side.

"You know what I never imagined?" Sherlock mumbled sleepy.

"I never imagined there would be someone to hold me afterwards."

John didn´t know anymore what he had been so pissed about.

* * *

Hope you had fun! Are you interested to read more about the wedding?


	2. Oh, god no!

Sherlock lay sprawled across his lover. His head on Johns´ good shoulder, his face snuggled against Johns´ neck, his right leg in between Johns´. His back rose and fell slightly as his chest pressed against Johns´ side. The early morning light coloured the detectives´ normally dark curls slightly ginger. Mycroft wasn´t the only one of the Holmes family with redhead genes in him. But John didn´t want to think about Mycroft right now.

He watched his lover sleep. A peaceful, non-after-case-coma related sleep. His face was relaxed, not frowning like usual. His lips were parted slightly, not a tight line, and John could feel Sherlocks´ breath running against the skin on his neck. John knew he was the only one allowed to witness. After all, he was the only one who could cause such a state. He was the only one who could shag Sherlock like that.

Sherlock shifted a little and the thick, dark blue eiderdown, that had covered them both, slipped. A pale, sherlockian butt was revealed, shone brightly and John could have sworn it had winked at him. Trying not to disturb Sherlock too much, John put the blanket back in place and petted his love gently. He could feel Sherlock smile.

It was moments like this, that remembered John how lucky he was, soon going to call himself married. John Holmes, the husband of Sherlock Holmes.

It had not always been like that. Only five months ago they had been Sherlock and John, nothing more nothing less.

Only five months ago, the first heralds of winter spread their wings over London and brought with them mist and frost. At amazing speed, they chased a pick-pocket through the cities´ labyrinth of small alleys and sharp corners. You could say they really ran into him as they were about to enter Tesco and he was about to leave. The security guard, being no help, lost his breath after 50 feet. So it was just the detective and his doctor, whose soles could be heard hitting the concrete.

John saw Sherlock cross a road, still behind the thief, and came after him. That was when it happened. He just never had Sherlocks´ luck.

He saw a light flash in the corner of his right eye.

His brain had already processed what was going to happen by the time the cars´ spoiler came in contact with his thigh.

He felt his feet being ripped off the street.

He wanted to call out for Sherlock, but suddenly everything went black.

He woke up to the beep-beep of the heart monitor and soft breathing at his side. He felt a light pressure on his right hand, but more prominent, a strong pain numbed to a dull ache in his right thigh. He didn´t need to open his eyes to know what had happened.

When he opened them he found Sherlock looking at him intently. His cornea was slightly red and his eyelids were swollen. He looked worn-down, paler than usual and smelled like only one-week-into-a-case-Sherlock could smell like. His locks had lost their usual bounce and lay flat against the scalp.

His upper lips quivered, as he bore his gaze into John.

"Marry me."

John would have expected everything. Love, Hate, even Fear. But surely not that.

He tried to sit up, but immediately lay back down as his head began to spin.

"..p-pardon?"

In a normal situation Sherlock would have got the infamous It-must-be-so-relaxing-in-your-little-brain look, but not now.

"Marry me."

John looked at him dumbfounded.

As if Sherlock only now got what he had said, he glanced at the floor, back at John and back down again.

"I want us to enter a civil partnership. When they carried you away... I waited for you to come out of surgery. I sat in this tiny, white room full of dull people, waiting for the only person in my life that is not boring. And when you finally came out, they told me I was not allowed to see you."

Sherlocks´ jaw shifted back and forth. He pressed his lips tightly against each other, fighting with himself.

"They said I am not family."

Sherlock stared at him again, determination in his eyes.

"But I am family. We... are family. And I want the world to know, that we are always going to... care... about each other. That´s why I want us to enter a civil partnership."

Sherlock now squeezed his hand almost too tight.

"Marry me."

...Well, that was only a part of the story how John came to be Sherlocks´ fiancé. But his lover had woken up and was kissing his neck lazily. John couldn´t help but smile.

"Morning, love."

"Mhm-n" Sherlock didn´t take his lips off his lovers´ skin to answer, so it was one of THAT mornings and John knew exactly why.

"Sherlooock~"

"We don´t have to get up, you know." Sherlock propped his jaw up on Johns´ shoulder. "We could just stay here in this room, make love all day long..." He buried his face in Johns´ neck again and breathed in deeply. "...and call out to a maid if you get hungry.

John giggled at the idea of fucking Sherlock while ordering a steak and because Sherlocks´ slight stubble tickled his jaw.

"Sure! I could pound your arse into the mattress at teatime!"

Sherlock let out one of his low, sexy chuckles, which always left John wanting more.

"We would drown the obligatory classical music with our screams!"

They held onto each other fondly and giggled like schoolboys.

"Mummy would not be pleased!"

The lovers stopped dead in their tracks, when steps could be heard from down the hallway. "Sherlock, love! Joh-ohn! Don´t you ever come down, boys? It´s nearly teatime!" Mummy Holmes was clearly annoyed. She was not used to disobedience. (Well, not since her youngest fled the nest aged 18.)

"Let´s get up, love. Seems like we can´t escape your mother."

Sherlock jumped up, only to stop at the door of his en-suite bathroom. He turned and looked at John again from underneath his long, dark lashes. "Can´t stand before her without showering first. Care to supervise I clean myself properly, doctor?"

John shot up while liking his lips unconsciously. "I swore to help, didn´t I?" He said and followed the detective.

* * *

Hope you enjoyed it! There are a few more chapters intended featuring cakes and beef bourguignon and Mycroft and of course the infamous Mummy.


	3. Oh, bloody hell!

"Of course we´ll have the smoked salmon for secondary choice, but for the first I personally would recommend something more refined like…" Mummy took a grab for the caterers list "the beef bourguignon served with a burgundy sauce or the truffle pasta, not something pedestrian like steak, John." Mummy almost rolled her eyes at her son-in-law. But she would never do that for real of course, she was a lady.

Johns hands almost ripped the menu in half, his lips pressing tight against each other, staring at her unable to find the matching words to describe his frustration, without insulting her. Why did she even ask for his, well technically _their_, ideas for _their_ wedding menu, when he wasn´t really wanted to voice his wishes.

"Yes, well.."

"Ach, give that to me John." She practically ripped the menu out of his hands and sneered at him. "I´ll take care of that so you don´t have to… waste your precious time."

He stared at her disbelievingly.

She just waved a hand at him, not even wasting one more glance and mumbled "You can go now.".

With that she finally labeled him unable to decide on any matter of his own wedding.

Maybe he should grateful not having to deal with the tedious duties and decisions a wedding ceremony brought upon them.

Maybe he should be grateful not having to decide on food (although steak or pasta Bolognese would not be hard for him to decide on and would be absolutely fine in his eyes) and eat whatever ´Mummy´ chose. Whether it was some nasty looking fish or totally overrated meat, bought only to shove the Holmes family's wealth into the noses of their guests.

Maybe he should be grateful not having to decide on his choice of clothing either. He would have been fine with just wearing some black trousers and one of the two dark sports jackets he possessed, with Sherlock by his side in one of his everyday suits. But now they both were pressed into unbelievingly tight matching Westwoods with different coloured bow ties, looking like the aristocratic doubles of Elton John and David Furnish.

Maybe he should be grateful not having to decide on whom to invite. Because really, if he had only invited his and his fiancés friends the Great Hall in the Manor would have been quite empty. Now it would be filled with aristocracy and royalty, leaving no room for either Molly (for real what was this girl doing, having spent years with Sherlock without getting him to marry her - Mummys words) or Stamford (because it´s not _really_ necessary to invite him, is it John?). Only Mrs. Hudson and Greg were considered worthy and honored with a seat each at one of the far away tables (because they put up her little boys antics).

Maybe he should be grateful. But he wasn´t.

He stared at her for two seconds, then stood abruptly, took Sherlock by the sleeve and dragged him out of the room.

He was mad and shirty and… sad.

It was entirely not how he wanted it to be. How _they_ wanted it to be. How they wanted to celebrate their special bond. Their understanding. Their caring.

He sat down on the chaise longue at the end of his fiancés childhood bed, put his face in his hands and tried to breathe deeply. Sherlock sensed his partners frustration (he had gotten better in these things and he tired, really), dropped down to his knees in front of John, stooped a little lower to pass Johns arms and wrapped his own arms around him, face pressed tight into his chest. And John was allowed to think about the times he would never even have imagined these troubles, while holding his beloved.

It was a few weeks after Johns coming back home from hospital. Three to be precise.

At first he was not sure if it was just his imagination playing tricks on him or if his flatmate had really asked for his hand in marriage, well… civil partnership, whatever. But increasingly frequent he caught Sherlock looking at him like… like… searching, waiting. He couldn´t really think that John would consider it. Would he? I mean… this was Sherlock, a man (and John clearly wasn´t gay) who proposed marriage (marriage!) and they hadn´t even… done things (not like he was interested in such things! Not. Gay.). Sherlock couldn´t really think John would consider it. But…

…he did.

They had long before come to terms with their feeling for the other, years ago when Sherlock was dead. It was some kind of love, deep within the core of their souls. Not pink and cuddly and fluffy, but solid and strong. And…

…and it was Sherlock.

His Sherlock.

Maybe he could be happy with being united forever with the man he learned to love over those past years. Happy with the lifestyle the consulting detective guaranteed. Maybe.

No, who was he trying to fool? Of course he could be happy. He enjoyed his life like it was, between Sherlock and experiments and Tescos and St. Barts and 221B and his occasional girlfriend. The only thing he would lose would be this girlfriend-thingy and he wasn´t good at it either way. Surely Sherlock wouldn´t mind a one-night-stand a few times a year. John by nature wasn´t the most sexual guy anyway. And with the years his sex-drive would leave him be at all probably.

For exchange, he would win someone whose duty it was to look after him. Not that Sherlock wouldn´t look after him anyway, but he would be forced by law. And John wasn´t getting any younger. If Sherlock decided one day that John couldn´t quite keep up with him anymore, it wouldn´t be as easy for him to leave him behind with a ring on his finger, than it would be now. And…

…and it was Sherlock.

His Sherlock.

So, fuck yeah, he really considered it.

Once again he caught Sherlocks glance from across the room, but held it this time. He opened his lips to speak, but not really able to express what went on in his mind, closed them again. Opened them again, licked the left corner slightly, swallowed, continued to stare at his flatmate. Not really being able to come up with anything, uttered a few sounds and finally persuaded his vocal cords to let what he had been thinking about for weeks out.

"...um...hpm... A-about... hm... About... the other day..."

I wasn´t the best of conversation starters but Sherlock understood. Of course he understood.

John was not proud of how he demanded from Sherlock to repeat his proposal (properly) with a ring and every other unnecessary sentimental symbol. Nope. And he certainly was not proud how Sherlock had grinned a little and said "Really, John?", shoulders slouched and hands folded, trembling slightly. Nope. And he definitely hadn´t wanted to hug him at that moment. Nope. Not one bit.

* * *

Sorry for the long wait. Other fandoms came in the way and I needed lots of lots of hot Johnlock fics to get me back on track again. Sorry also for the splitting and putting back together of this story. (Not one of my best ideas.)

I hope you liked it so far. Please show your support if you can.

I´m currently working on an AU Alpha/Omega-verse Sherlock fic. Please keep an eye open for it.

Kisses!


	4. Oh, my love!

John and Sherlock. Sherlock and John. This was going to be good.

They had spent their day chasing thieves over rooftops, dodging cabs, outwitting forensics, and their evening at Angelos, eating great pasta, having a bottle or two of heavy red wine and sharing a big bowl of Angelos famous Tiramisu.

They both ate, which was odd enough, but even odder: Sherlock was... chatting, talking about nothing in particular, not deducing!

Every normal observer having known Sherlock for five minutes at most would have known something was up. And it was.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective (invented the job), was going to propose to him.

Him, John Hamish Watson, wounded ex-army-soldier, ex-broken-man, ex-shadow-of-himself, doctor, flatmate.

Nearing the end of their meal Sherlocks hands began to tremble slightly, holding on to his last spoon of dessert, licking the cream more eagerly than before. He obviously quieted down, his gaze shifting along the length of their regular table. He smiled a few times, but seemingly dismissing the idea of his, looked serious again. After wiping his hands along the legs of his trousers one, two, three times, he put his hand on the table, crossed his fingers, shifted forward and stared John deeply in the eyes.

"John. Do you want to.."

"Noooo."

Sherlock, being rattled, sat up straight again and lifted his eyebrows involuntarily.

The corners of his mouth fell and he was almost about to protest as John noticed his mistake.

John shook his head a little and grinned at his almost-fiancé.

"That´s not the answer, you idiot."

Sherlock relaxed a little and waited for further instructions.

"This is not what we discussed."

Sherlock pulled a face and tilted his head to the right.

"I know you're not comfortable with that whole public-love-declaring-thingy, but we discussed it and you agreed to do it under my terms."

John took Sherlocks hands in his and looked at his from underneath his lashes (normally a speciality of Sherlocks).

"And now, go on."

Sherlock let his head drop, curls falling into his face. After a moment he reciprocated Johns gentle grasp and mumbled.

"Please, John..."

John let out a shaky breath, but grinned nonetheless.

"Okay, let´s get you home."

The cab ride back was silent, but comfortably so. They sat close. Not close enough to assume anything, but closer than necessary. Close enough for them.

"Tea." Sherlock said, dropping the tray down in front John rather carelessly for the davenport being nearly 200 years old.

"What did you think about, love?" Sherlock really had gotten more attentive these past few months.

John snickered. "´Bout your famous proposal."

Sherlock snickered too and, getting a chair, sat down beneath his fiancé.

"I tried."

„I know."

They sipped their tea in unison, hearing Mummy quarrelling with the florists or the furnisher or whomever and let out a collective sigh.

"...When I think about it now..." Johns lips were parted slightly and he nodded to himself. "You didn´t really propose. I just assumed your question and agreed. Well… the second time. For that makes me the proposer!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "If that view complements your ego…"

"Yep. I like it… Only so we´re clear: I would have proposed properly."

Sherlock sank down in his chair and rested his head on its back.

"I´ll never hear the end of that one, John, will I?"

"I would have gotten down on my knees in the middle of an overcrowded restaurant and said: Sherlock Holmes, you are the love of my life. Would you honor me with becoming my husband? Or something like that."

"I know, John. You already mentioned. A few times. "

„I wouldn´t have simply put the ring box onto the tea trey until you finally had the mercy to take the ring out and put it on."

Sherlock covered his eyes with his forearms and replied again dully. "I know, John."

"But I love you anyway." John said, looking at his fiancé through his kind blue eyes.

Sherlock sprinted forwards and attached his lips to Johns firmly.

He couldn´t say how much his blogger meant to him, but he tried to express it another way as often as possible and hoped John would know if he tried hard enough.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed reading. Thanks to all the reviewers and followers and favorites. I appreciate the support.

Please let me know what you would like to read about (concerning their wedding). It would be a pleasure combining your wishes with my plotline.

Read you next time!


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